Cleaning Day
by DMat
Summary: For Alfred Pennyworth every day is cleaning day, especially in the bat filled cave under Wayne Manor. So why is he upset when his workload lessens? Comments, critiques and corrections are welcome and appreciated.


Cleaning Day  
  
Just outside the borders of rural Gotham City, atop a small hill overlooking the teeming city below, is an elegant and spacious manor known to many far and wide as the home of Bruce Wayne. To a select few there is another, more interesting facet to this ancient familial home. Through a secreted passage behind an old grandfather clock you could travel upon stone carved steps and into the cavernous wonder known simply as the Batcave. It is here that one often finds Batman's closest ally performing daily maintenance and upkeep of this darkened sanctuary and fortress. Alfred Pennyworth is indeed the gentleman's gentleman and prides himself on having such an important role to play in Bruce Wayne's crusade. He's seen what Batman becomes without him, and it isn't pleasant.  
  
For now he is content in placing a recently confiscated trophy from another one of Batman's successful endeavours into a glass case. He settles the object down carefully and looks over the card printed for the display.  
  
'The ball used by Hakenslash Jones in Tiger Slayer case'  
  
Alfred smirks and gently deposits the card in its slot and seals the glass case. He knows this problem irked the Master to no end, and it was a relief to see the culprit finally captured. 'Of course Master Wayne doesn't celebrate his successes,' Alfred silently surmises, 'He's already off on another errand of mercy, leaving me to struggle with the more mundane tasks.'  
  
The loyal butler then turns and with mop and bucket in hand sets out for his next task, one he thoroughly despises. He begins scrubbing the steel struts of the cave and heaves a heavy sigh a few moments later. 'This is bizarre,' Alfred wonders, 'the amount these creatures deposit has never been so…so wonderfully minimal!' Alfred looks above and trains his ears for the squeaks and flapping wings the cave is so familiar for. He's down here so often that the noise is simply tuned out, yet now it has almost completely vanished. He checks his watch, 'Curiouser and curiouser. The bats are normally present at this time of day.'  
  
Alfred gets up off the ground and walks over to a small cage. He lifts it up and sees the tiny creature inside resting peaceably, its left wing prone on a splint. 'The Master certainly cares. I suppose he would have to since he shares a kindred spirit with them.' The butler then carries the cage gently across the cave, hoping for a response from the wounded bat that would provide a clue to his brethrens' disappearances. He passes by the display case and the tiny mammal squeaks in agony.  
  
"Oh my."  
  
…  
  
There are things that simply aren't done in Gotham. You don't threaten anyone, since they are usually armed. You don't carry a lot of money, since it usually means trouble. And you don't leave an expensive car lying in a parking lot outside a 24 hour mart late at night, since it usually vanishes. Yet here it sits, a Rolls Royce with tinted windows neatly parked and all alone.  
  
A dark dressed man wearing a trench coat smiles at the sight of it. He's been following this car for several miles, and finally his hard work is going to pay off! He thumps one of the windows and flashes a cruel smile.  
  
"Hey Mister Bigshot! How do you like that? You screwed me over but now I know your dirty little secret, don't I? I knew my string of luck would've brought the Batman in sooner or later, but now I've got you where I want you! I've got your plates, and I've got you! You listening in there?" the man smashes his fist into the window again. "Come out come out, wherever you are!"  
  
A strong arm grabs the trench coated assailant by the shoulder and spins him around. Grabbing both arms a hulking mass of a human being stares into his eyes and sneers, "Well, well. Hackenslash Jones. Didn't you just get bail yesterday? And here you are threatening another Gotham citizen. What do you think the bail judge will think about that?"  
  
"Detective Bullock," Jones sneers confidently, "You've got me, but you can't keep me quiet. The man who drove this car here is Batman, and the whole freaking world's going to know it!"  
  
"What, you mean him?" Bullock gestures to his left as he handcuffs Jones. There, before both of them, is a scrawny old man with a small moustache and thinning hair, his arms crossed around a brown paper bag.  
  
"I thank you for the compliment, young man, but do not appreciate the assault upon the car," Alfred says in a deadpan manner.  
  
"Not him!" Jones yells, "It's a disguise! Yeah, that's it! A trick! I'll get you for this!" and so on as he is showed into the back of Bullock's waiting squad car. Bullock then walks over to Alfred and smiles, "I suppose Bats gave that punk quite a scare. Thanks for the tip, by the way. Say Al, what were you doing here anyway?"  
  
"The Master was to entertain and required some of this noxious brown beverage," Alfred answers as he lifts a brown bottle out of the bag, "So I drove here to acquire it, along with a few other emendable items. I, and the shop keep, noticed this brazen fellow circling the Master's vehicle and contacted the police department. You certainly came quickly."  
  
"Couldn't your spending spree wait until morning? You know it isn't safe in Gotham after dark."  
  
Alfred clears his throat, "The Master is known to…entertain at the most unusual hours."  
  
Bullock gives a wry smile before finishing, "Well, you might as well get back to the house on the hill. I heard enough from Jones, but if we need you we'll call." Alfred nods and heads for the Rolls. He places the bag gingerly on the passenger seat and drives out of the parking lot.  
  
A few minutes later he pulls up next to a sidewalk waste basket and rolls down his window. He grips the tiny ball in his hand and smiles, 'Expert high-pitched tracking equipment, perhaps costing thousands of dollars, foiled by a flying rodent with sensitive ears.' He tosses the ball into the waiting basket.  
  
"Two points," he chuckles as the window rolls up, "and the foul. I believe that's the game." 


End file.
